


2 a.m. at the Silver Spur Diner

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Americana, Blood and Injury, M/M, POV Outsider, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25164688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: There's a 24-hour diner in Wyoming, in a town with more dogs than people. It's a quiet town, a quiet diner, until the two guys enter, bleeding. One of them has a leading man's smile when he chooses to use it, and the other is too tall for his weight, with a sharp nose and soft hair.They sit to themselves. They order coffee and pie. They whisper and get blood all over the booth. They don't much resemble each other though they say they're brothers.But that's a tough sell, given how they're looking at each other. And how their bloody hands wander.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 235
Collections: The AO3 SPN Kink Meme





	2 a.m. at the Silver Spur Diner

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wolfpack](https://archiveofourown.org/works/665944) by [tabaqui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui). 
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [theao3spnkinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/theao3spnkinkmeme) collection. 



> This is a prompt fill for the AO3 SPN Kink Meme, prompt in the summary.
> 
> Whoever wrote this prompt, you’re a genius, and I love you. Please reveal yourself to me so I can fawn over your glorious brain and also read every single fic you have ever written. 🥺 I had a hell of a lot of fun writing this fic—certainly more fun than I thought I’d have when I took this prompt—and I can only hope I’ve done it justice.
> 
> This was also inspired by tabaqui’s Wolfpack verse, which is such a fun take on a slightly Other version of the Winchesters. You don't need to read it to understand this fic, but I highly suggest you do because it's just so glorious.

Nothing ever happens in Ten Sleep. Josh would know. He’s lived here all his life.

The coffee comes on Tuesday, and the shipment of frozen waffle fries and breakfast patties comes on Friday. Susan brings the mail at 11 o’clock every weekday, and Josh tops up her dinged-up silver travel mug and asks after her husband.

“Oh, he’s fine. His foot’s been acting up again—it’s the gout, you know. The doctor says he’ll be right as rain if he cuts out all that red meat. Have you ever tried tofu? They make these burgers with it.”

Josh makes a face. “Not if I can help it. More power to you, though.” He knows how Bob likes his red meat. Comes in every Sunday with his kids and always orders a double cheeseburger cooked medium-rare. There’s no way he’s going to switch to tofu. “And you?”

“Oh, you know. Can’t complain,” she says sunnily.

“I certainly could. I won’t, though.”

She laughs and raises her coffee in thanks, and then she’s out the door, the tarnished silver bell jangling behind her.

Mondays are so  _ slow. _

* * *

Nothing ever changes in Ten Sleep either.

Day after day, it’s always the same. Josh rolls out of bed at five and slaps his hand over the blaring alarm clock. He’ll hit the snooze button no less than three times, until he’s almost late for work. He’ll shower and do the sniff test on whatever shirt looks cleanest, yanking it over his head while jamming a toothbrush into his mouth with the other hand.

He fucking hates mornings, but at least he’s got them down to a science.

It’s Monday again.

Technically it’s Tuesday, because he’d agreed to cover Maria’s shift, which means he’s pulling a double and he’s still here as the clock ticks midnight. He’d had a few hours to go home and sleep during the afternoon, but he hadn’t quite managed it. His schedule isn’t geared that way; his body isn’t primed for it, so he’s leaning against the counter nodding off in intervals, running on caffeine and fumes.

The diner is always slow on Mondays because everyone’s had time to actually cook over the weekend. There are leftovers to eat, packed lunches to consume, and most importantly, reports to finish at work. Josh mostly has the place to himself during the day, give or take a few stragglers.

He recognizes most of them, a side effect from living in one place for the whole of your adult life. Ten Sleep isn’t exactly a prime vacation destination, and the Spur isn’t exactly the Ritz Carlton. It’s practically a ghost town at night, all their regulars tucked safely home in bed. He isn’t quite sure why Carla insists on being an all-night diner anyway. The money can’t possibly be worth it—he’s seen the totals when counting the till at the end of the day.

Josh stifles another yawn and lets the thought drift away. The hours pass like molasses, and Josh cleans things until he can’t even pretend there’s sense in it. Everything is as clean as it’s gonna get.

He’s folding silverware when he hears the door bell rattle, tucking knives and forks into little pristine-white bundles of paper napkins.

“Be with you in a second,” he calls without looking up.

He finishes the one in his hands and sets it in the basket with the others before peeling his gloves off. He blinks, because the newcomers have seated themselves in the time it took, though he can’t have been more than a minute, tops—and because they are newcomers, in every sense of the word. This town doesn’t get visitors, and yet here they are.

There are two big, bloody men sitting in one of his booths, and Josh freezes in his tracks. Should he—he doesn’t know,  _ call _ someone? The sheriff’s house isn’t more than five minutes away. Willy could be here before these strangers have even finished looking over the menu.

Josh sighs and dismisses the idea out of hand. Willy’s been having hard times with the missus, and these two don’t  _ look _ dangerous. Give or take the blood. He shakes his head and palms the phone in his pocket. He figures he’ll bring them their menus and give Willy a call if they start any trouble. With any luck, they’ll just eat and leave.

He scoops up two plastic-laminated menus and two freshly rolled silverware bundles and starts in their direction. It’s downright creepy the way they both lift their heads in unison, swiveling their necks to watch him before he’s even made it to their table.

“Howdy, boys. What can I do for you? Any drinks to start?”

“Coffee,” the handsome one says. He’s got a voice like he’s been kicked in the throat, and Josh swallows nervously, taking a step back and angling his body toward the door without quite knowing why.

“Two coffees. And pie,” the other one adds.

“You got it. Any preference for flavor? We’ve got apple and cherry.”

“Apple,” the first man says.

“Cherry,” says the other.

Josh can’t get away fast enough. He grabs two heavy, white mugs behind the bar and fills them from the steaming carafe. He brings them over and returns with the cream pitcher and two slices of pie, apple and cherry, as promised.

They don’t say thank you. Not that it matters, but Josh is used to people saying thank you. It pays to be polite in a small town. You have to be, when there’s no getting away from the same faces that surround you day in and day out.

“You need a couple more minutes with the menu?” Josh asks.

“Just the pie for now. Thanks,” says the taller of the two, with a flash of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his fox-tilted eyes. He holds out their menus.

Josh thinks he was actually better off without that thank-you.

“No problem,” he says, taking the menus and retreating back behind his counter.

He fingers his phone in his pocket, thinking of calling Willy. There’s no real reason to call the police on these two, he knows that. They look cut up pretty bad, but being injured isn’t a crime. They’ve been nothing but polite since they walked in.

It’s just—there’s something about them. Something Josh can’t quite put his finger on, something that makes his hair stand on end. He pulls on a fresh pair of vinyl gloves and goes back to rolling silverware. He keeps sneaking glances at their table. It’s impolite to stare, bad for business to snoop on customers, but he can’t figure out what their deal is.

They’re both bleeding pretty bad; he can see it now that they’re under the harsh fluorescent lights. Why not go to the hospital, if you’re hurt that bad? He knows times are hard, and God knows he’d think twice about going to the ER unless something was broken or he was dying, but even he’d go if he looked like that. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t stop for  _ pie, _ of all things.

He’s about to walk over there and give them directions to the hospital. There’s one in Worland across the way—twenty minute drive, can’t miss it—but he catches a fragment of conversation. Carla keeps the radio set to soft rock at all times, no exceptions under pain of death, and at this time of night the local radio station plays nothing but sleepy oldies. It’s low enough that Josh can pick out the words exchanged by the men in the corner booth. He takes a chance and turns the volume a little lower, hoping no one notices.

“Told you we should’ve waited. Wouldn’t have been so fucking strong if it wasn’t the full moon,” says the tall one.

“Wasn’t the full moon, we wouldn’t have been able to catch her at all,” the other one says.

“They manifest for the gibbous moon, two days on either side of the real thing. She’d have been weaker, and you wouldn’t have been torn to all hell.”

“Sammy, you worrying about me? I’m touched.” His gravelly voice is dripping mocking sarcasm. It’s the kind of tone men get hit over, and Josh can already picture this man getting hit a lot, never mind his almost uncanny pretty-boy face.

Josh wonders if his companion will take a swing, but it seems like they know each other too well for that.

He’s proved right when Sammy only raises an eyebrow. “Touched in the head. You’re gettin’ slow, old man.”

“Bitch.”

Sammy laughs, slow and easy. “Jerk. How’d I wind up with a pain in the ass like you for a brother?”

“I ask myself that every damn day.”

Brothers. That explains it, though you wouldn’t know it to look at them. The pair look nothing alike, one tall and sharp and lanky, the other well-built but more compact, and neither making a lick of sense. Full and gibbous moons and whatever cut them both to ribbons—both, because no matter what Sammy says, it doesn’t look like he got off any easier than his brother.

“Dean,” Sammy says, and Josh and the handsome man both look up.

Josh looks away quickly, suddenly fascinated by the tedious work in his hands.

“We should head south after this. There’s a haunting in New Mexico I want to check out.”

“Sure, Sammy,” Dean says, amiable and easy. “Whatever you want.” He yawns, a jaw-cracking, rib-expanding thing that must pull at some hurt that Josh can’t see, because it ends in a wince and a frown. “Maybe some shut-eye first, get you cleaned up.”

“I saw an inn a little ways back,” Sammy says, taking a sip of coffee and cutting into his pie with the side of a fork, but Dean’s clearly got something else in mind.

He leans forward, dragging his invisible injury over the table and picking up Sammy’s free hand. Sammy watches him with curious eyes, fond as Dean brings that bloody hand to his mouth and sucks Sammy’s index finger clean. Sammy doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t even bat an eye. He keeps eating his pie in small, methodical bites while Dean licks his fingers clean, sucking on them like they’re goddamn lollipops.

Brothers, huh? Josh is openly staring now. He can’t rip his eyes away, not when he has a floor seat view of the way Sammy’s kneading Dean’s crotch with a long, sock-covered foot, apparently having ditched his shoes the better to  _ grope his brother. _

Dean makes a pleased purr, sinking lower into his seat and widening his thighs to give Sammy room to work. His eyes are heavy and lidded, mouth curling up into a satisfied smirk. “Didn’t wanna wait for the hotel, huh? Attaboy, Sammy,” he says in that low, growling register.

Sammy presses harder, leaning his weight into it, and Dean thumps his head back against the back of the booth and moans, loud and long.

Josh swallows hard. This is really— he should really—

He suddenly remembers there’s something he urgently needs to get from the—anywhere but here.

He’s not actually supposed to leave the register unattended, but Victor is in the kitchen, and it doesn’t seem like those two out front are in any kind of mind to steal anything. He opens his little cubby of a locker and fishes a cigarette out of his backpack. The back door swings open with an easy shove, banging shut behind him with a rattle. He takes the lighter from his pocket and lights up the cigarette.

It’s dark back here. Cool. The desert air blows gently against his face. He can smell the grease from the fryer and the comforting scent of tobacco. The lit end of his cigarette glows cherry-red in the night. He leans his head back against the diner wall and blows out a puff of smoke.

Fucking wild, man. You meet the weirdest fucking people on the graveyard shift. He checks his phone and sees it’s half past two. He finishes up his cigarette and takes his time about it, feeling a little guilty for leaving Victor in there with—well.

Josh sighs. He tosses the cigarette butt on the ground and stubs it out with a toe. Probably shouldn’t leave the cash register unattended for any longer.

He’s not actually surprised to find Dean and Sammy gone when he goes back inside. He’s mostly relieved, maybe a tiny bit disappointed. They gave him the goddamn creeps, but at least it was something interesting. Only another half an hour until he can go home.

The diner is empty, the brothers’ plates and cups clean save for a few crumbs and dregs of coffee. There are a few wadded bills on the linoleum table, faintly smudged with blood—like the booths, like the table. There’s a fine trail of blood leading out the door, little drips and splatters that you might not see unless you knew to look.

Josh shakes his head. He thinks this constitutes a biohazard, thinks he doesn’t get paid enough for this shit. At least they’ve got plenty of gloves.

“Fucking  _ brothers,” _ he mutters to himself, pinching the corners of the bills on the table between his thumb and forefinger, heading off in search of a mop.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say what's up on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture)


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